


Callous

by MTTapologist



Category: Tattered Weave
Genre: Angst, Other, Regent Lenta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MTTapologist/pseuds/MTTapologist
Summary: So there was a way to make this impossible union happen after all. But what is the cost?





	Callous

 

 

Alban had always welcomed new faces warmly, but a frown crossed their face when this new figure stepped through the door of their shop.

An elf; but tall, impossibly tall, with limbs that felt too long and too thin. They ducked low through the doorway, then stopped barely two steps inside, standing rigidly in place with their head still bowed. Alban couldn't make out their face, but they could see the cropped, dark hair, brittle like a dead branch, and the light brown skin dappled with streaks of pale. The elf's thin hand clasped a cloak around them, as though they had rushed out of their home wearing nothing else.

They could not place it, but something was deeply wrong.

"HELLO....." they began, when the stranger cut in; the voice was quick, oddly halting, and.... suddenly familiar.

"Hello Alban. I have, that is, may I trouble you -- I will need something tailored for me." They paused, putting together their thoughts; their voice sounded strange and high-pitched without the reverberation of wood. "....Something, ah, suitably regal."

"LENTA......" they pronounced slowly, hardly believing it. They looked down at the other -- further than they had ever had to look down at them before -- and made sure to keep the sadness out of their eyes; just a neutral, curious expression. "THERE WERE... OTHER SUITORS... IS THIS WHAT... YOU BOTH TRULY WANTED?"

Lenta finally looked up. Their eyes no longer had the depth of a dryad's, but they were bright, and that small circle of colour blazed with warm autumn orange. The Princess had made them a very handsome elf. "I, well, it is best for the Forest -- that is what will make the Princ- ah, that is what Celariel wants, and what I desire is for Celariel to be happy. So.... I suppose it is." They had a strangely unsteady smile. Alban couldn't say for sure whether they were struggling with expressions on this new face, or if smiling was not quite the right expression and they were trying to do it anyway.

".. EVEN THOUGH THIS DOES NOT FEEL LIKE... A VERY HAPPY OCCASION..... I HOPE.... YOU WILL BOTH BE VERY HAPPY...." Alban said, a cautious smile in their eyes. Lenta smiled more widely, and Alban could see teeth. This new face would take some getting used to.

"My deepest thanks, my friend."

Alban rested a heavy hand on their friend's now-much-more delicate shoulders, and perhaps more carefully than was truly necessary, they led the elf to the back of the shop.

\---------

\---------

Lenta ducked through the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony of the throne room, leaning gently -- carefully -- against the railing. They felt tired, and they knew why (elven bodies weren't meant to stand constantly) but sitting was still uncomfortable. Everything was uncomfortable. Skin was so sensitive; Celariel had assured them, as warmly as she could, that this would become a pleasant feeling once they were used to it -- the more nuanced elven sensation of touch -- but days later Lenta still felt as though all their bark had been pulled off, exposing something too delicate, like the finger under a nail. Chairs felt too hard, too sharp. The rough texture of unpolished wood felt like it would cut them. The fabric of their clothing felt, constantly, too abrasive and rough, though Alban had chosen the smoothest, softest silk they could find.

They let themselves lean more heavily on the railing and sighed. They were grateful the royal announcement was over, at least.

The door behind them opened, and they pushed their discomfort to the back of their mind. They did not want to distress Celariel, and an elf cannot simply hold a neutral face in order to appear in good spirits, they have learned -- an elf must manage a smile.

The princess stepped up to lean on the rail beside them, and she looked up, beaming. Their own smile came more unbidden than they had expected. "Lenta, tell me how you're feeling? I hope this hasn't left you reeling."

"I am alright, Princess," they said softly. "I don't -- Ahaha, well, I suppose, I need a bit more time to become accustomed to all of this."

Her smile wavered, and she turned quickly to look out over the forest before it faded entirely. "I hope it's become better, and not worse? I'd hate to see this gift become a curse..." Lenta looked down, uncertainly, at her face; she continued to stare out over the tops of the trees, frowning harder. "...Leaves can be fashioned, bark can with magic regrow... but you cannot be a dryad again - this you know."

"I am sure it will improve," they said lamely, attempting to sound calm and confident. "Please, do not fret over me -- I could not, rather, I.... I never would have dreamed, that I could stand by your side. That -- that is a gift, if nothing else is."

"I'm.... I'm touched, that you think me such a fair prize...." Celariel looked up, a small smile on her face, though somehow the expression still seemed sad. "How could I be worth all of this, in your eyes..." She cautiously held out a hand, and they rested their own on it, delicately. "We both dreamed of this for so long..." she mused, quietly. "....now though, I wonder, why does it feel....."

She fell silent. A moment later, she gently slipped her hand out of theirs, leaving Lenta on the balcony with a couplet about being tired after a long day.

Lenta thought about lying down in bed, and their whole body shuddered.

\---------

\---------

There was a high-pitched yelp, and Celariel was already gathering her skirts and starting up the stairs as the guards looked up in alarm. "Leave us be, I'll go and see," she huffed, dashing past, and they simply nodded and held their posts.

And, as she'd come to expect, Lenta was on the ground, cringing and shaking their head. She knelt next to them with a small, worried frown. "I thought it might be such, too.... Lenta, may I touch you?"

They nodded, and she reached over to help them up. "Yes, that is..." they mumbled, belatedly, as she took their hand. "I am sorry, Celariel, I --" They must be much improved, she thought -- there was no longer a sensitive hiss every time they were touched. They continued trying to shake off some bleariness as she pulled them to their feet.

"Please, now, if you could think -- when did you last eat? Or sleep? Or drink?" She kept hold of the unnaturally tall elf, guiding them to lean against the wall while they thought over the question.

"I slept properly," Lenta said, slowly, "I...... I do not recall eating today." They thought harder, then added, sheepishly, "ah, well, actually, come to it, I did not -- ah.... I may not have eaten yesterday either. Bother." Celariel's heart sank, and a long sigh slumped her shoulders. This was not the first time this had happened. Perhaps dryads were never meant to be elves after all -- if Lenta could not adjust, then this was a terrible mistake.

And yet, it was too late to take back now. If she were called to the Heart, Lenta would need to be regent in her stead. They weren't ready. How long would it take? Months later and they still couldn't remember to _eat._ She had thought they could be trusted with the task -- she knew they would make thoughtful decisions and run the kingdom decisively -- but perhaps this was a mistake, too. What if Lenta would _never_ be ready? That would need to be accounted for. An heir would need to be produced very soon, the heir would need to be old enough to manage the once-dryad when she --

"....Celariel," Lenta said, and she looked up to find them staring down at her, contemplating her expression carefully. "My.... my deepest apologies," they said quietly. "I was not -- I did not intend to frighten you." There was a hint of something odd in their face, that she'd never seen before. Something harsh. "I will do better. In fact.... I should eat something now, while I am thinking of it." They smiled apologetically, and she smiled back, assuring them as best she could that everything was alright as long as they were alright, and she walked with them as they moved a bit unsteadily to the royal kitchen.

She could not shake the way their expression had hardened.

\---------

Perhaps she had nothing to fear after all.

The very next day, Lenta had given themselves a schedule -- food, water, and rest were all strictly accounted for -- and they adhered to it single-mindedly. Within days they had begun using the furniture in the room easily, casually; which would not seem so strange if she had not watched them avoiding chairs in favour of standing for the past few months. She caught them running their hands along railings, walls, tables.

"Forgive an idle question," she had asked, with a confused smile, "but what is this new obsession?"

Lenta startled, then looked down at their hands, considering their answer. "...I do not wish to be a liability." They took her hands in their own and smiled warmly; she was too surprised by their ease to respond. "What manner of consort would I be, to force you to become my caretaker? You certainly deserve better."

Lenta had become very good at smiling. She was sure it couldn't be real every time they smiled to guests -- the birch-patterned elf was near-constantly uncomfortable and tired -- but she could not tell the difference. She was almost envious of their skill.

And of course, she was relieved. She'd had nothing to fear. Lenta would be a fine Regent; they were very good at every part of the job. She wondered if they truly felt more comfortable now. She wondered why she sometimes missed an uncertain elf confessing the difficulties of remembering to eat. Why she felt sad at the memory of a birch tree apologising profusely for misplacing a flower, anxiously stammering through thoughts that came too quickly, admitting their clumsy feelings for a princess.

\---------

\---------

It was a lazy day of spring-but-nearly-summer -- the air was humid and the sun was hot, and moving around was something you did only a little at a time. Hope travellers would become more frequent soon, with classes wrapping up for the semester, but for now the visiting students were few and far between, mostly staying inside the shops where at least it was shady and cool.

But Munnin, the odd little avoreal who ran Magic For Sale, was busy and bustling -- word had been sent from the Throne Room that Their Highness planned to visit today. They were known for being patient, magically powerful, and generous to a fault -- but also just a bit fussy, and he wanted to make sure the shop was respectable.

There was a small knock on the screen that folded over the doorway, and a carefully enunciated "May I come in?" Munnin quickly finished setting a couple of potions on the shelves before calling back,

"Please do!"

An impossibly tall elf with short, black hair and a fir-trimmed cape stepped through the doorway, ducking instinctively, even though the over-large opening was likely one of the few doorways where that wasn't necessary. They were already looking around the shop, face lit with an odd nostalgia. The avoreal rushed forward and bowed. "Your Highness, welcome."

"Ah-- thank you. Munnin, yes? You are the new magician I appointed."

"Yes, highness. I just got moved in here last week."

The elf laughed, the sound almost musical. "Ahaha, well, I will not -- that is, I have no doubts about your ability to run the shop well. I think this might be the neatest I have seen it -- and I have been here often!"

"Thanks, I'm honoured!" the avoreal grinned. He stepped back over to his desk, gesturing. "Well, I don't want to hover, Highness, but let me know if you need anything. It's been a bit rearranged in here."

"I am.... well, I am not here for supplies this time. I am sure you have heard, some of my visits are, ah..... more of a, maintenance nature?"

"Oh yeah, the previous guy mentioned something about that --" he began, but the regent was already stepping over to one of the enormous roots that made up the "walls" of the shop, laying their thin hands against it, chanting something.

Their hands began to glow a brilliant, deep green as magic gathered under them. The pool of magic grew larger, brighter; green light now streaming through their fingers -- then finally, slowly, it began soaking into the roots of the tree, dimming as it climbed the tree's trunk.

For all its dramatic light show, it scarcely took a minute. The regent patted the roots gently with one hand, whispering softly -- something gentle and affectionate, the way you might speak to a kith, that the avoreal couldn't make out.

"What was that?" he asked.

The regent did not turn to look at him. "This tree was once a dryad's tree. It, well, without -- it is theoretically capable of growing on its own, but without that soul -- well, it is better safe than sorry," they explained. "The spell merely reinforces its bond to the forest."

Munnin frowned, curious. "What happened to the dryad?"

The regent was quiet for a long moment.

"...They died."


End file.
